Lay Me Down
by geritashipper123
Summary: In Chess, losing your queen is considered a great impairment. (K/S, Spirk, takes place immediately post TWOK. Jim grieves.)


He keeps his composure until he reaches his room.

Bones was reluctant to let him leave sickbay, begging Jim to at least stay one night, or at least crash in Leonard's room. Jim had ignored him, walking out of sickbay silently.

In the past… was it only a few hours? During this span of time, he'd made an announcement to the crew, voice as deadpanned and calm as if…

And he'd also faced Saavik, their sweet child, the girl Jim considered a daughter, and told her about…

And he'd faced David. And Carol. And Bones, Scotty, Nyota, Pavel, Hikaru- every pitying look, he'd faced with a nod and a quiet smile- one so tight even a complete stranger would recognize that it was fake.

He'd probably scared his whole crew.

He didn't particularly care.

He gets back to thei- _his_ quarters, and…

The moment the door swishes shut, it's like a slap in the face. A punch in the gut. A _bullet to the head because oh god-_

Oh god, the _chessboard_ is there.

Jim had lingered in their- his quarters after… after _Spock_ had gone on duty hours ago and… and he'd set it up for a game so that later, when the day had been won, they could play chess and make love, celebrate another victory lost in eachother, smile and laugh and Jim would reveal his plans for a vacation, a second honeymoon, just for them.

The chessboard is set.

The _chessboard is-_

But Jim's king is tipped over. Khan took his queen earlier that day and _the second_ it had happened, Jim might as well've thrown the entire set out because he was helpless, his chances were hopeless without his queen, his most powerful piece, able to make all the moves the king couldn't. Jim had always loved his queen, and in his attempts to protect her he'd even sacrifice the king, any piece on the board because with his queen, he could win, take on any enemy that faced him down. Many a pawn had sacrificed themselves for-

 _Oh dear god, Spock was dead._

The thought hits him so suddenly that his vision whites out, and he collapses to his knees, breath coming in short gasps as the _pain_ of the day washes back to him.

They won the day. That's going to be his consolation prize, that they'd beaten Khan. The valiant _Enterprise,_ the queen of the federation's armada, has won again.

But no, no. Jim knows, without having to think very hard, that could he do it again, he'd give Khan the federation. He'd present the deed on a silver platter, he'd murder the president himself if it meant another day, another hour, another _millisecond_ holding Spock's gaze. If it meant hearing his voice or- or feeling _their bond,_ which was now-

Saavik had to put a _block on it._ Because Jim was in so much pain, even if he wasn't making a sound. He'd barely made a sound all day, not since-

 _No._

That one word, a simple syllable, one of the first a child learns. It had fallen from his lips like an afterthought- had it been a request or an order, as in _no, don't leave me?_ Or had it been a response to the last words Spock had vocalized. _Live long and prosper. No. Not now, not ever, not without-_

Jim's mouth opens now, and he's not sure what he expected to come out. A plead, a beg, a wish.

What comes out is a wail.

There are no words in any language to describe how _agonized_ his voice counsel to his own ears. It sounded like some sort of dying animal, bleeding in front of him and trying to tell him it needed help.

He forced himself to inhale again, a ragged thing that he wished he could stop doing. If he held his breath long enough, would he get a glimpse of his husband?

His exhale was another wail, and then another. They increased in volume and suddenly, he was in full-blown meltdown.

 _Oh how the night have fallen. It was the worst of times._

The mighty James Kirk, hero of the federation, beater of Klingons and Romulans, survivor of Tarsus, son of George and Winona, husband of Spock of the regal house Surak, was sitting on his floor, wailing like a child who didn't get his way. His hands were in his hair, and he wasn't-

That was the worst part. He could muster no tears for this. He didn't understand, Spock was his _everything_ and the years that stretch ahead of him without Spock are the most terrifying, disgusting thing Jim has ever seen. And yet, he couldn't cry. Not one tear came. He just knelt on the floor and wailed out his grief until his voice cracked. Even then, the wailing didn't stop. It only got louder and louder, and Jim rocked, back and forth, back and forth, body trembling.

Every inhale brought the faint scent of Spock's incense, which was just _wrong_ because there was _so much unused incense._ Spock hated waste, but Jim wasn't allowed to touch his meditation supplies- what was he supposed to do, exactly, with the fresh candles and unopened incense? Or Spock's mat and Firepot? What was e supposed to do with Spock's clothes?

Jesus, what was he supposed to do with the _body?_

For a moment, as he thinks those words, his wails become an all out shriek. He can't help it- Spock has a body, and the body is dead, and Jim has to just _do something with it._ Find a way to get rid of it like that body, the body of the man who was his entire soul, was now just a sack of decomposing meat and- and that was _exactly what he was._

Jim jumped up and his legs moved on autopilot, dragging his idiotic brain and weak stomach to the bathroom in time to heave what little was in his stomach into the toilet.

After he threw up, he felt only minutely better. Enough that he was able to climb to his feet, swallow and close his mouth and cease the wailing.

He went for his toothbrush, needing the taste of bile and unshed tears out of his mouth.

It was a bad idea- he should have known that seeing Spock's toiletries would just start it again.

The shaving equipment was meticulously organized- Spock had this _thing_ for self care, he was never quite logical about it. Even though starfleet issued a lazor for shaving purposes, along with lotion and shampoo and toothpaste and everything, Spock allowed himself the miniscule luxury of ordering expensive soaps and shaving creams and makeup that left his skin soft and his features lightly highlighted, just enough that he looked like he glowed.

Jim loved that about him, he loved that he knew about Spock's little fetish for smooth skin and loved that he could order Spock things, present him with little bottles of lotion as gifts and know they would be appreciated but-

But now…

No more gifts. A sick little part of him should probably be relieved, no more money to spend. But Jim is instantly saddened by the loss- he loves presenting Spock with presents, watching him attempt to explain why it wasn't logical _and_ process the fact that he- after years of abuse from others- had someone who bought him gifts _and_ express the gratitude for the gift and

Jim wouldn't be able to present Spock with holiday gifts, birthday gifts, _anything,_ not ever again, because Spock was dead dead dead and-

Jim cups his hands and starts the sink, intent on splashing his face or wAshing or-

Jim's migraine pills.

The bottle is small, clear. For the extreme tension headaches he got, Bones had prescribed a small circular pill and instructed Spock on how many to give him, because overdose was-

Jim stared at the bottle.

He picked it up slowly, fingers shaking. _Overdose was-_ and, and _Spock_ would be-

Jim unscrewed the cap without thinking. He stared at the small blue circles.

And then, before he could think twice, he turned and tilted the whole bottle over into the toilet.

He flushed every last pill down, watching it swirl away with a numb fascination. Gone gone gone, just like Spock.

Jim's feet moved again. His jaw was still locked tight, afraid that the wailing would begin again if he opened his mouth. He was still shaking, and knew that walking around might help.

Instead, he made it to their- their- his bed before collapsing again, on his side this time.

He risked opening his mouth to gasp for air, and almost choked on it when he tried to wail and inhale at the same time. He closed his mouth again.

No tears, still, Jim pressed his face into the pillow. No tears. His entire world is destroyed, and there are no tears.

He's afraid to close his eyes, because he knows what he'll see. Spock there, in the chamber, brunt and dying, and Jim, there, outside, completely safe and fighting every urge screaming at him to rip the door off it's hinges and grab Spock and drag him out of there himself.

So he doesn't close his eyes.

He just lays there, and shakes, and makes noises akin to sobs but are more like some sort of painful snorts. He lays on his hands to make sure he can't reach for the other side of the bed like he always does.

(The tears do come, a day or so later, at the funeral. Jim cries for what he has lost and the person who he'd lost.)

("Young" he tells Bones, because he is. Humans live to 130 now, and Jim was only halfway there which meant he had a long way to go before he can see Spock again, and he isn't sure how he'll do it.)

(Turns out, he doesn't have to.)


End file.
